Stolen Secrets: A Collection Of Riveting Mysteries

by J. S. Donovan

  “Thanks, Harold,” Ellie said and put her phone away. “I’ll call you if I learn anything.”

  “Give me your information,” It sounded like a command.

  Ellie paused. He already knows your name and your face, there’s nothing to be worried about. Ellie removed a peach-colored business card and handed it to the man.

  “Ellie,” he mumbling, imprinting the name into his memory. He flipped the card to its back, revealing the picture of a quaint little house in a prairie of indigo, yellow, and blue wildflowers. It was the painting that had launched Ellie’s career.

  “You’re an artist?” Gatts asked.

  Ellie didn’t reply. She was already hurrying down the steps, leaving Harold Gatts alone in the room where his pupil died.

  Ellie got a cab with a different driver and hightailed back home. She had her to-go box salad and foam cup of saved tea, but had no desire to eat or drink. The ride ended in a blink. Ellie fished out a few bills, left a nice tip, and returned to her apartment.

  Bands of golden sunlight streamed through her blinds, creating jail bars on her couch and coffee table decorated with artsy pearl-white glass globes and candles. She hung her coat on the rack, put the leftovers in the fridge, and went directly into the art room. Securing the door behind her, she unmasked her unsettling masterpiece and placed it on the easel. Ellie couldn’t help but admire it. The detailing and shading were perfect, and tiers greater than the rest of her artwork. She walked to the desk and booted up her MacBook. Multi-colored fingerprint paint stained the laptop’s keyboard. A few were completely stiff with paint and required finesse to press. She plugged in her phone and transferred the photos from the storeroom.

  She held her computer like a palette and stood before the easel. She swiped through the pictures, comparing them to her creation. By how the blood spattered the walls, the painting alluded to seconds after Kimberly died. The vases and shelves were hadn’t been moved. The fragmented shards on the floor were the same from the portrait, only moved in real life. The rest of the changes were dismal. Ellie took a breath. She needed to see the crime scene photos. Too dangerous. Ellie set aside her laptop and bit into her lip as she studied the crow with the slashed belly. It looked to have been cut open with a knife, and there were no glass shards as Harold Gatts had said. If the killer broke the window afterwards, then he/she may not have wanted the police to draw the connection, but why? The bird was symbolic, obviously, but what it had to do with Kimberly, the vase shop, and Ellie’s blackout was still unknown.

  Ellie leaned in close to the dead bird spilling its entrails. Something on the wing caused her to squint. It looked like a message of some sort. Ellie fished out a magnifying glass and got a better look. The print was extremely fine and nearly impossible to read. It was scribbled on the arm of the bird, closest to its torso of its open wing.

  “42A,” Ellie read aloud, getting goose bumps. She jotted down the number on her phone’s notepad app. What did it mean? Was it actually written on the bird or was this something Ellie added for the sake of the painting?

  The front door opened.

  Troy was home.

  Ellie backed away from the painting and joined her husband in the kitchen. He put his laptop bag and camera on the bar and started to get ready for dinner.

  “Feeling any better?” he asked casually. “Oh, and I’m making stir fry for dinner. Parker told me about this recipe. I think you’ll love it. Very spicy.”

  Ellie crossed her arms, making herself small. Don’t tell him, you idiot, her conscience warned her.

  Troy took a moment to stop slicing his onion and glanced up at her. “Ellie, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “It’s the painting, Troy,” Ellie said, softly.

  “What about it?” Troy asked.

  Ellie didn’t reply.

  Concerned, Troy approached and put his arms on her waist. He smelled like the gym. “I know it worries you, but I’ve had a lot time to think about it. With the stress from the wedding and work, I’m sure your mind just needed a break. Now, give me a hand with these onions. Unless you’d rather have me do all the heavy lifting.”

  “The woman from the painting, she’s real,” Ellie said, unable to hold back the truth. “More than that, she’s been murdered.”

  Confusion flooded Troy’s handsome, bearded face.

  Ellie pulled up the news article on her phone and handed it to him.

  Troy looked over it and then to Ellie. “They look exactly alike.”

  “That’s because they’re the same person,” Ellie repeated. “Her name is Kimberly Jannis. She co-owned a pottery shop and was killed in her storeroom. Stabbed sixteen times. That’s how many stab wounds she had in my painting. Moreover, I went visited the storeroom this afternoon. There was proof of the dead bird and --”

  “Slow down,” Troy interrupted. “You visited the crime scene?”

  “Yeah,” Ellie said anxiously, ready to get on with her story. “That’s not all.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Do what?” Ellie asked.

  “Go there?” Troy inquired. “To the place where she died.”

  “I was looking for answers.”

  “What for?”

  Ellie felt her frustration building. “To see if it matched the painting. It’s not rocket science. Heck, I’d venture to say science has nothing to do with it all. Maybe someone put a curse on me or one of Kimberly’s vases has some maleficent force tied to it.”

  “Are you listening to yourself?”

  Ellie wanted to pull her hair out. “I know it’s crazy, but a woman that I’ve never seen before who owns a pottery shop I’ve never visited, died an estimated twenty-four hours after I painted her death in the exact same way that I painted it. That’s not chance. It can’t be.”

  Troy stammered, trying to find the right words and failing miserably.

  “Do you understand my issue?” Ellie asked, cooling herself down.

  “It’s weird, okay. It’s really weird, a-a-and I don’t--what do you want me to say? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Ellie threw up her arms. “Exactly! And you know what else I found? The crow in the painting didn’t fly in through the window as the police say. It was left there by the killer with a number carved into the bone of its wing: 42A.”

  Troy ran his hand up his silky blond hair and twirled around to look out the window. The sun was falling quickly. He exhaled.

  Ellie spoke softly. “The police need to see it. Thee clues in the paint could be what they need to solve the murder.”

  Troy turned back to her, his intense blue eyes wide and his face heated. “No police.”

  “But--”

  Troy walked back to her and spoke forcefully. “We don’t know what’s going on here. They’ll think you’re involved somehow.”

  “I can’t solve this by myself,” Ellie complained. “I need some who’s a real detective. Someone with resources,”

  “No,” Troy commanded. “I forbid it.”

  “You forbid it?” Ellie scoffed. “I’m your wife, not your slave.”

  Troy grabbed her arms, squeezing her to the point where it hurt. “They will arrest you, Ellie.”

  “You’re hurting me,” Ellie squirmed.

  Troy loosened his grip but didn’t let go. “No police. No anyone for that matter.”

  “So then how do I solve it?” Ellie asked.

  “You don’t,” Troy declared. “We lock the painting away or we destroy it. I’m in favor of the second option.”

  Ellie shouldered out of his grasp. “No.”

  Troy set his jaw, and his face turned cherry red. After a fierce stare down, he finally said. “You don’t have to destroy it, but I don’t want to see it again, and I don’t want you playing Mary Sue, either.”

  Ellie kept her mouth shut. Anger made her eyes water. Knowing Troy, knowing that he was mellow ninety percent of the time, but overly passionate when it came to certain views, she wouldn’t convince
him. What made her angrier than her husband’s stubbornness was the fact that he made a valid argument. The police could, in fact, see her as a suspect. A small part of Ellie saw herself as a suspect. Who knows what she did during the six-hour blackout? Maybe she didn’t even paint it. Someone could’ve dropped it off.

  “Ellie,” Troy stole her away from her thoughts and waited for her response. “Are we clear?”

  Ellie averted her eyes and nodded.

  Later that night, when Troy was asleep on the couch, Ellie tiptoed down the spiral staircase and slipped into the art room. She shut the door behind her, cringing at the clicking sound, and then pulled the light string. There it was. The painting that had robbed her rest and stole her thoughts during the quiet hours. She enhanced the intricate details with the magnifying glasses, brushing it over the number 42A again. It had to mean something. It just had to.

  Under the dim ceiling light, she kept investigating, looking intently at the crow’s feathers, its beady black eyes, the multicolored innards spilling from its belly, and finally the glossy blood blooming around its limp body.

  She squinted and leaned in close. Her eyes widened at the image captured in the bird’s blood. It was a reflection, not of a person, but of a building nearly invisible to the human eye. The paint used to mask the image was only a shade darker than the scarlet plume where it resided, and the structure was accented by black lines the size of a pencil point. A water tower, old and tin with an umbrella-shaped roof, was the most distinguishing feature of the multi-story tenement building.

  Ellie knew that what she’d find there would be far bigger than herself.

  4

  42A

  “Off to work,” Troy stated as he picked up his laptop bag and camera from the kitchen counter. He gave Ellie a quick kiss more out of habit than love and hustled out the door.

  Ellie sipped her morning coffee. She waited a few moments before approaching the living room window and opening the blinds. Sunlight bathed her as she watched her husband twelve stories below climb into his 2016 Jeep Renegade and zip down the Northampton streets.

  Ellie blew on her mug, swirling steam in her face. In her faint reflection, she had bloodshot eyes and tense muscles. Sleep escaped her last night. Even after she had left the masterwork in the art room, the painting stayed with her thoughts. The number 42A and the building with the water tower swirled in her head. She blinked, seeing the blood spattered on the pottery store wall. For a brief moment, she imagined the blood was her own and that sixteen stab wounds marked her floral blouse.

  On the street below, more pedestrians loaded up for their morning commute. Ellie watched them scatter like ants, kiss their loved ones, and pack their vehicles with bickering children. From up here, they seemed so small, so disconnected from Ellie. Troy is right. Ellie thought with an easy feeling. I need to destroy the painting before this gets more out of hand. But then she thought of Kimberly. What if she was only the beginning? On her cellphone, Ellie researched the local news. There were no new developments on the murder. It was still labeled a robbery homicide.

  Finishing with her sparse breakfast, she grabbed the painting from her easel, packed it in a wide and skinny cardboard box, and headed down the elevator. Her heart was raging in her chest when the cab driver pulled up. It was the hairy man from yesterday. Ellie actually took the time to read his name tag.

  “Larry,” Ellie said, feeling her mouth become dry. “I need you to take me to the police station.”

  “You’re not sounding too good. Something happen?” the cab driver asked.

  “Just drive,” Ellie said. Before I change my mind.

  It was a slow trek through the town. Traffic had picked up and she had the unfortunate luck of hitting every red light along the way. Each stop, she contemplated turning back, and when she was about to chicken out, the light went green. The cab rolled on and her heart rate quickened. Destroy it. Destroy it. Destroy it, Troy’s voice replied in her mind. Ellie shut her eyes, attempting to calm herself. She practiced steady breathing and told herself that the police would believe her. They had to.

  “We’re here,” Larry declared.

  Ellie grabbed the car door handle and hesitated. She looked up the stone steps of the police department and at the tinted windows hiding what lay within.

  Larry watched her in the rearview. “Want me to drive around the block?”

  Ellie shook her head and mumbled, “No.”

  She grabbed her package and opened the door, lowering one of her legs onto the sidewalk.

  Larry’s eyes were still on her, waiting in expectation.

  “Oh,” Ellie said. She fished out a few wrinkled bills and put her wallet back in her purse. Larry mouthed the number as he counted the money and then smiled, his golden tooth twinkling.

  The cab drove away, leaving Ellie alone on the sidewalk. Puffy clouds coasted over the perfect blue sky. It would’ve been a wonderful day for a picnic. Holding her breath, Ellie started her hike. She reminded herself that she was innocent. By the time she reached the double doors, she actually believed it.

  Ellie stepped into the air-conditioned room with chairs flanking the walls and a receptionist desk. It was the first time she had been in a police station, and she felt that she stood out like a sore thumb. Mustering a little courage, she approached the desk and the granite-faced worker clacking away on the keyboard. She batted a quick eye up to Ellie before returning to the computer screen. Ellie kept herself from rubbernecking. She didn’t want to give the impression that she was a suspicious character. The large cardboard package didn’t do her any favors.

  The officer tapped the spacebar twice and swiveled in her chair to face Ellie. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I have some information regarding the Kimberly Jannis murder.”

  The worker glanced at Ellie’s box and picked up her phone. She dialed. “Peaches. We’ve got a woman with information about Jannis.”

  Ellie tried to listen to the person on the other end’s reply, but couldn’t capture a single word.

  The work hung up the phone. “He’ll see you now.”

  Ellie thanked the woman and followed her instructions to go down the hall. Before reaching the bullpen, a burly man in uniform stopped her, had her surrender her pack and purse, and made her pass thru a metal detector. Nothing in the purse caught his eye. He slid the painting out of the cardboard packaging, gave it a once over, and then put it back. Ellie felt him watching her as she went stepped into the bullpen. There were columns of desks spaced throughout the room. Only about half were manned, and most of the officers there typed up reports, others discussed cases quietly among themselves while sipping steamy mugs, and some took phone calls, looking absolutely bored or miserable. All but one officer behind a small tin desk tucked against the farthest wall. He sat on the edge of the seat with perfect posture. He wore charcoal slacks, shiny leather shoes, a wrinkle free button-up, and a dark blue fitted suit jacket. He spoke calmly on the phone with a small smile on his handsome face that had a perfect five o’clock shadow. He looked like the type of person who said good morning to everyone whom he passed and followed every rule in the book. The solid walnut desk sign with shiny gold front read “Detective Adrian Peaches. Homicide Division.”

  Holding her large package close to herself, Ellie moved around the edge of the room and toward his desk. When she was about five feet away, Detective Peaches finished his call. He stood from his seat and extended his hand. “Detective Peaches.”

  Ellie rested the box on the front of his desk and took his hand. “Ellie Batter.”

  “Have a seat, Mrs. Batter.”

  Ellie sat in the chair across from him.

  “Do you mind if I call you Ellie?”

  “Sure,” Ellie replied. She interlocked her fingers over her lap to keep herself from fidgeting.

  “Who’s the lucky guy?” Peaches said as he lowered himself to his seat.

  Ellie glanced down at her shiny wedding ring that was hardly two weeks old.
“His name is Troy. We’ve just come back from our honeymoon. Are you married, Detective?”

  Peaches chuckled. He had a sweet laugh, like that of an old friend.

  “What’s so funny?” Ellie asked.

  “I was engaged for nine years,” Peaches admitted. “Married for six months and learned that the woman wasn’t one for commitment.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ellie said.

  Peaches shrugged it off as if it were nothing. He pulled open his drawer, pulling out a legal pad and sharpened number two pencil, placing it exactly an inch above the pad’s binding and spending a second to make sure all of the items was flush. “So, the Jannis robbery. What is it you wanted to tell me?”

  “Well, um…” Ellie searched for the right words. Peaches watched her acutely. Though he barely looked away from her eyes, Ellie could tell this man was much more astute than he let on. He knew her wedding ring was new from a single glance and had probably already picked up on Ellie’s bloodshot eyes, shaky demeanor, and her package that he hadn’t mentioned. There was a sort of subtle confidence captured by his handsome face and deep green eyes that made him appear trustworthy.

  Ellie bounced her eyes across the room, feeling as though everyone was watching and awaiting her response. It made her skin crawl. “Can we discuss this in private?”

  “This is a safe place, Ellie,” Peaches reassured her. “Take your time. No one’s out to get you.”

  “I know, but…” Ellie took a breath. “It would be much easier if I showed you.”

  “The package?” Peaches asked, though he knew the answer.

  Ellie nodded.

  “Would it be easier if I opened it?” Peaches asked.

  “No, I can do it,” Ellie said, a little quicker and more anxiously than she would’ve liked.

  Peaches noticed the response, but made no mention of it. He had yet to touch his pencil.

  Ellie opened the flaps of the cardboard box. She pinched the linen canvas’s edge and extracted it carefully.

  “You paint often?” Peaches asked while he waited.